(Episode 1 published yesterday)

We All Are Prostitutes

The night was dark and rather gloomy. Too quiet, save for the classical music from the nocturnal birds. Somewhere inside the darkness, Flora waited patiently. With an excuse, and definitely with an explanation.

As I drove into Wuse 2, calm deserted the night. Cars were honking and standing in pairs, were the queens of the night. The hookers. Flagging down cars, as if they needed free rides. Time was no longer their friend. Any that couldn’t hook up with a client soon, would retire to her abode, counting her losses and praying for a better tomorrow.

A black Range Rover stopped. The girls near the car moved seductively towards the car, sampling their wares with seductive poses, fake smiles. The real deals on the side. A market whose real drivers are difficult to identify, I wondered who would take the glory for organizing such a Trade Fair: the men, who stopped to buy, or the girls, for being available for purchase. But it was a known fact that the only reason men drove into the crescent at odd hours was because that was where all the bad girls could be seen. And probably because sex in Wuse 2, was negotiable.

I wasn’t tempted in any way to stop. I passed Amigo Supermarket and drove straight to the Wine Shop. At the entrance were scores of young, neatly dressed women. They stood as if they were waiting for someone, or as if they were stranded. Like sheep with no shepherd, they moved in uncoordinated cycle. As I slowed down, they gradually approached my vehicle.

“Hi,” one of the girls said in a fake British accent.

I ignored the greeting but took out time to check out her features – fair skin, big bosom and cat eyes. She sensed I had no wish to price her wares but noticed that I had taken advantage with my eyes. She turned around and walked away. Her big buttocks bounced with each step she took.

“Na wah o,” I muttered in excitement as I navigated to a free parking space inside the compound.

I parked my car carefully, made sure the doors were locked and moved slowly into the crowd. A herd of girls. Selling their bodies. A fair market. Watching was free so one could window shop. I wasn’t buying so I looked. I checked every lady around the area, Flora was not there.

I dialed her number and she picked like one in a hurry. I gave her no chance to say ‘Hello’.

“I am standing at the gate,” I grumbled.

“Please, come to the back of the building” her voice was teary

“Behind the building? Flora, I ….”

“Obie, Just come, please” she begged.

The back of the building was poorly illuminated, but the girls meant business. Some were smoking and some were negotiating with their male clients. And with the aid of the twilight, I snapped glances into shadows. I noticed one who stood alone. If she was not Flora, then she was made in the image and likeness of Flora. I moved towards her and the doubt was cleared.

Saint Flora. My movement towards her lost speed and I faltered. I wondered why on earth her breed would stand in the counsel of the ungodly. Flora. I suspected that heaven was asleep. There was no better explanation. Nothing would have permitted an angel to dwell in hades. Heaven would have come to her rescue, she was a fallen angel, but this time, with broken wings.
She wore a short white gown, a sign that her crime was premeditated. Even from a distance, she looked wild, looked nothing like the Flora I used to know, more like a club girl who had not learnt her trade or a model who couldn’t fit into the fashion world. Whatever the case was, sex oozed from her. She was as full of sex as a palm nut is full of oil, but still fresh like palm nut bursting with oil yet to be extracted.
She saw me but didn’t move, she stood there and sobbed, and sobbed.

“Come let’s go” I pulled her and headed towards the car.

She didn’t speak a word. She wept uncontrollably with convulsive gasps. I doubted if any explanation would make sense to me. In my judgment, the summary of what happened was a hustle gone south. An intro to the real reality.

Girls of her kind thought prostitution was an easy trade – one just needed to lie on her back, mix pleasure with business and in the end, get paid. They thought harlotry required no qualification or experience. False perception. Unknown to them, there was always a course, a full-time program required. One needed - first and foremost – to have multiple sexual partners, from there, graduate to ‘runs–babe’ operating a small-scale prostitution from home, which would help to beef up personal experience, then finally sign a deal with the devil over her conscience, before going out to stand in the middle of the night. She thought it was simple, but in reality, harlotry was not a mean challenge.
We drove in silence. And she made no attempt to explain what happened. A gesture I appreciated. She couldn’t pull herself together to narrate. Besides, she would have found it difficult to convince me.

I entered the house and directed her to the room. She moved in like a zombie and continued with her audible sobs. She could not talk to me, I allowed her to have the room alone. Around five in the morning, while I was deep in sleep, someone tapped me softly, I opened my eyes. Lo and behold, Flora was before me. Not in her short gown anymore, but in my boxers and loose polo and a questionable stare.

To Be Contd

Ozii Baba Anieto is a storyteller, a poet and a spoken word artist

Following, really following.

Hello dear nice story here, but please make it more attractive by creating a single thread for them. Believe me you have a lot to say but presenting each episode in a new thread is absod... Don't get me wrong it is just no cool.

thanks. It is my first time sharing a story... thanks pal